


Ghosts Of The Past

by geckoholic



Series: author's favorites [41]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: spnraritiesfest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-03
Updated: 2011-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-24 06:59:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/260420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean hunt a ghost, but the person Dean's haunted by is still very much alive.  - Dean/OMC (consensual, in case that's unclear), set pre-series and in S6, between 6.12 and 6.13.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts Of The Past

**Author's Note:**

  * For [foundwanders](https://archiveofourown.org/users/foundwanders/gifts).



> Inspired by her prompt "We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be." by Kurt Vonnegut, albeit loosely. Other prompts used are 'cabin in the forest, a lake with cold water, a thunderstorm on a summer night', history, literature, secrets, first times and kissing. And don't even ask what happened here, I have NO idea how this got so long.
> 
> Beta'd by kalliel; she also moonlighted as cheerleader and sounding board, and I can't thank her enough for the helping hand she lend me all throughout the process of writing this fic. ♥ And embroiderama gave this a last sweep regarding grammar and spelling after the final edits. All remaining mistakes are mine. 
> 
> Title is from "Ghosts Of The Past" by Eskimo Joe.

**  
**_(Largo, 2011)_  


  
Haunted hotels or motels aren't exactly a rare gig; every hunter does a few of them over the course of his career. Maybe it's the nature of these places—the ins and outs, all the lives they touch and tragedies they host. The fact that people who stay there are generally more unsettled and restless than those who die in their own living room.

Whatever it is about them that draws the supernatural like a light bulb draws moths, Dean always finds these jobs a little unsettling. It's not just that it's usually a pain to figure out what happened, what with the sheer number of past occupants and possibilities, but also the fact that, for him, rented rooms are pretty much the equivalent of Joe Normal's living room. Not where you want ghosts to walk abroad – Dean's far from being afraid of them, but he'd like to be safe from getting attacked, mauled and thrown into things for at least a few hours of the day, thank you very much. Hunter or no, even he needs some downtime.

The Compton Inn in Largo, Florida, is no exception; Dean feels uncomfortable from the moment they enter the lobby. It's an old building, the kind of establishment that doesn't go with any trends and tries to give the impression that you've just got to step outside to find yourself in the previous century. The antiquated furnishing is well taken care of but time-worn and threadbare, the light flickers a little while they file in, and Dean's not looking forward to finding out if at least the showers are up to speed with the standards of the new millennium.

While the receptionist guides them to their room, Sam casually throws in a question about how their cab driver told them about ghost stories surrounding the hotel, and Dean eyes her carefully to see her reaction. But if she knows something, she's covering it up well; there's no crack in the nice, professional surface, not even a blink to indicate that the question brought her out of step.

***

**  
**_(St. Petersburg, 2004)_  


  
Metallica's "Fuel" wakes Dean from a deep, dreamless sleep, and it takes him a moment to come to his senses; a few more to locate his phone in the mess of sheets, bloody towels and what's left of his clothes from last night. By the time he's found it, it's stopped ringing. Fine with him, Dean thinks distantly, the pounding headache he has doesn't make him keen on hearing the rest of the song anyway.

The caller ID tells him it was Dad calling, and sure, who else would? Sam stopped answering his calls about three months after he left. Like hell he was gonna call him now.

Dean blinks the sleep out of his eyes, sits up and takes his surroundings in for a closer inspection. Motel: that much he recalls; and a trashy one at that. The A/C isn't working, it's boiling hot and the whole room smells like chlorine from the bathroom, and faintly rotten everywhere else. There are burn holes on the sheets and tell-tale stains on the carpet, and the big panorama window offers a view onto the parking lot and an overflowing trash container. But he didn't care much for the atmosphere of the place last night, was just glad he didn't have to spend the night in the car and tend to his injuries in a public restroom. The critter made a mess of his left leg, it's a deep wound and it feels like a tendon got torn up some. Walking's gonna hurt like a bitch for a while and he'll be lucky if nothing gets infected. The thought makes him even more grateful he didn't have to go with the restroom option.

What he can't recall is how he made it from the reception to the room, or anything after that. Blood loss, concussion, probably even shock, the whole nine yards.

In short, a night to write home about.

He stares at his phone for half a minute, still dumbstruck with sleep and exhaustion, and then hits recall.

Dad answers after the second ring, jumps right into the conversation—no pleasantries or greeting. "I got your message. You okay?"

Dean snorts. "Yeah. The damn mutt tried to gnaw on my leg, got a few bites in. But I'll be fine."

The "mutt" was a black dog, vicious thing, and huge. It went after a family of five last night and only three of them are still alive this morning. Dean managed to get the mother and the girls out – twins, about five, absolutely precious little things with matching pony tails and everything – but the father and the older brother...

Yeah. Dean's fucking peachy.

There's an intake of breath on the other end of the line, and when Dad continues, his voice is quiet and calm, almost gentle. "Don't blame yourself."

"’Course not; I blame the dog."

Bullshit, and they both know it, but Dad doesn't give it any further comment. There's a moment of awkward silence; then his voice is back on the line, loud and strong this time, making what he says next a command. "Shore leave, kiddo. One week. Hell, make it two. I don't want you hunting if you can't even walk all right, let alone run or fight."

Dean's about to protest, but he thinks better of it before he opens his mouth. Dad is somewhere in Montana, pretty much halfway across the country, and Dean could wince at the mere thought of driving for days on end with that leg. In fact, right now, hobbling over to the bathroom already sounds like a painful task.

Dad takes his silence as acceptance. "I'll call you when I need you, all right? Take care of yourself, son."

"Yeah, you too." Dean slides the phone shut and lets himself flop back onto the mattress.

Looks like he's on vacation.

***

**  
**_(Largo, March 2011)_  


  
The first thing Dean does as soon as the receptionist shows them to their room is throw himself onto one of the beds. From the few times he stayed in establishments that have earned themselves the title "hotel", he remembers one thing clearly: they pay way more regard to how well their guests sleep, and the beds are usually awesome. He couldn't care less about elegant interiors or flowers on the bedside table or continental breakfast, but he can appreciate eight hundred dollar mattresses. This one even comes with a comfy sea of extra pillows.

And he's not wrong, he hasn't lain in a bed this comfortable since... Well, Lisa.

Not a thought he wants to dwell on. He turns his attention to the case, recounting the facts in his head while he stretches out on the bed. The spirit doesn't seem to be particularly malevolent – there are reports that it’s scared the shit out of people for a good long while now, decades, and nothing much seems to have happened – but the last person to run into it was an old man and the poor guy died of a heart attack. Maybe it's the ghost's fault, maybe not, but dead is dead, in Dean's book, and once a thing took at least one life it landed itself on his shit-list. Plus, when he saw the article online he figured that this might be a good case to ease back into hunting together: nothing dire, no lives at stake, and very little reason for Sam to do any wall-scratching.

As if Sam somehow caught Dean thinking about him, he turns from where he was rummaging around in his duffle bag. "So, do we have anything to start from? Other than some local legend about a ghost in the motel and the grandpa who bit it?"

"No, but how about we try to get our hands on that visiting book, see if we can come up with a few names? And maybe see if the other staff members got something to say; someone's gotta be the gossiping type."

***

**  
**_(St. Petersburg, 2004)_  


  
It doesn't take Dean long to come the conclusion that he doesn't want to spend the next two weeks in a motel this horrible. Someone dumped a fresh load of kitchen scraps in the trash next to his window shortly after he got off the phone with Dad, and the smell of rotten food’s intensified as the day grows hotter. There's a couple fucking noisily next door, complete with banging their heads against the wall, which is such a cliche that Dean wants to hurl.

By late afternoon he's checked out and driving aimlessly through the city, the pain be damned, on the lookout for an establishment that's a little more ritzy. He's on vacation, after all, so he figures he might as well stay someplace nice.

In the end, Dean picks a nice little hotel right by the sea. It looks like a recent build, whitewashed stone walls and flat roof; the driveway is palm-fringed and it's probably extra-expensive because of the view of the bay, but that shouldn't be a problem. He's piled up some cash from hustling the past few months, and doesn't spend much money for himself – now that Sam's not around anymore it's easy to budget his cash – and for later he's got a fresh credit card to pitch in. Peter Mollenhauer isn't going to care how exactly Dean exhausts his limit.

The place is nice enough to not have any free rooms, but the receptionist tells Dean that a few other guests will be moving out later that evening, if he wants to wait?

Dean wants to, suddenly tired and really not in the mood to keep driving around with a leg that keeps throbbing and cramping, so he settles to wait in the lobby. They have a seating area, fancy couches and armchairs arranged around coffee tables, with plates full of cookies and jars with fruit gum in them—and there's an automatic coffee maker too.

Hell, if they'd allow him to, he'd be fine sleeping right there; he's stayed in actual rooms way worse.

After he pours himself a cup of coffee from the machine, Dean sits down and fishes around in his duffle for a walkman; there are a few spare tapes from the car in there somewhere, too.

What he comes up with instead is a book. It's dog-eared and a little battered, because he carried it around for a while and didn't exactly tuck it away carefully. Unlike Sam, Dean doesn't see any sense in treating books like they're somehow brittle. Even his school books were dirty and torn up after the short time he used them before they had to move.

When Sam's done with a book, it still looks as if it came fresh out of the press. There are some lines on the spines that show it's been read, but other than that, good as new. This one looked like that when Dean found it, too. A couple of them, in fact, in a drawer in the motel room Sam stormed out of when he left for Stanford. Dean didn't know if he forgot them or left them behind because he didn't like them enough to keep them, didn't care, but he couldn't leave them where they were when he and Dad were done waiting for Sam to change his mind and come back and, finally, moved on.

Sam left those books behind, and he left Dean behind, and Dean knows it doesn't make sense, but... He just couldn't leave them in the drawer or throw them away. Carefully hidden from Dad, in the depths of his duffle, he took them with him—about a dozen, novels and poetry alike.

He doesn't even mean to read them.

But a guy gets bored at times, and pulling out those books and just turning the pages - knowing that Sam read them – gives Dean a strange feeling of affinity. It's not like he's expecting Sam to look up from whatever he's doing in California right that moment and think of Dean or some sappy shit like that; it feels more like walking in Sam's footsteps.

***

**  
**_(Largo, 2011)_  


  
The hotel clerks all either live by a much tighter code of conduct than what applied at any place Dean's ever stayed in, or they simply didn't notice anything. Dean suspects it's the former, because the place is kinda pricey and the owner's probably not very keen on bad publicity and ghost stories spilled to the guests, but it doesn't make his and Sam's job any easier.

It's not for the lack of trying. Dean chats up the night porter, and they keep the sign that signals the room needs to be cleaned out at different times of the day to get a hold of more than one maid, but no one says a word when Dean and Sam ask about the spooky rumors related to the building.

Pretty frustrating to be stonewalled like that, but following Dean's suggestion about the visiting book Sam thought up a system to come by the names of potential witnesses in the area. The handwritten data gets transferred into a file on the computer in the lobby, and once they get their hands on it, Sam's going to cross-reference the number of the room the ghost's haunting with the date of the guests who stayed in it, maybe checked out earlier than what they booked.

Kid's smart, you have to give him that. Dean chooses not to say that out loud, settles for giving Sam a snap to the back of his skull, but he's sure his brother gets the message loud and clear.

They leave the task of getting their hands on the list for the next day, and spend the rest of the evening watching TV. Dean's channel-surfing and Sam's bitching about his complete inability to settle on a program for more than five minutes, compares it to Dean's usual approach to women. Dean's quite sure he hasn't been this content in a while.

For once, and Dean's sure not for long, almost everything is right in his world.

***

**  
**_(St. Petersburg, 2004)_  


  
Even after he's got a proper room, Dean ends up spending a great deal of his time in the seating area. He's still not used to being alone, going out to do something useful falls flat because of his leg, and at least out here it's lively. People check in and out or wait for someone in the lobby, travel groups meet up before they go sightseeing; it's always crowded, even if it's just the staff having a coffee break. Being raised on the road, having half of his meals in diners and washing his laundry in public laundromats, Dean's used to other people adding white noise while he goes about his own business. The silence in his room makes him want to crawl up the walls, but out here, being alone is bearable.

On the evening of the third day a guy about his age, dark blond and dressed in a cheap black suit, sits down opposite of Dean. Dean sees him smile at him out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn't pay him much attention. He's been flicking through one of Sam's books again, and pretends to be lost in his reading .

He may not be keen on being all by himself in his own room, but friendly small talk isn't exactly what he's coming into the lobby for either.

Mr. Cheap Suit is persistent, though. He leans forward, tries to make eye contact, points at the back of Dean's book. "Slaughterhouse Five, huh? It's one of his best."

Dean contemplates to just go on ignoring him, but then he shrugs and raises his eyes. "Guess it is."

As if someone turned up a dimmer, Cheap Suit's smile becomes a few shades brighter. He's positively beaming. "Personally, I prefer Mother Night. It's my favorite of his, the -"

"Not looking for a book club, buddy. It's a free country, can't keep ya from sitting there, but leave me the fuck alone."

There goes the beaming smile, making room for something that looks more like a kicked puppy. "Sorry. Didn't mean to disturb you."

Okay, so maybe Dean's an asshole. He's sitting in the hotel lobby after all, not the place one goes to when looking for solitude. "You didn't 'disturb' me," he backpaddles. "Just ease up on the book reviews, yeah?"

Cheap suit nods and pulls out a book of his own, reads while Dean keeps pretending to do so. Except, every now and then, he looks up from it, and downright _ogles_ in Dean's direction. He makes a few more attempts at striking up a conversation, tries to talk about how nice the hotel is, mentions that he's been here before, nice staff—and everything's so clean. When that doesn't get him a reaction from Dean, he resorts to railing about other guests in the lobby, tone all conspiratorially, and he doesn't even refrain from talking about the weather. Dean eventually takes pity on him, condescends to one-word-answers and affirmative nods.

The longer it goes on, the harder it becomes to ignore: Dean's being checked out all right. The head-to-toe glances, the hungry eyes, the easy smile: he doesn't notice it at first, but they're not just doing innocent small talk.

And just like that, he's nervous as hell. He's not used to guys flirting with him like this. Sure, he draws attention from men sometimes, but they're usually way less subtle about it; if he'd gotten a penny for every time a pervert at a gas station or truck stop yelled some x-rated suggestion about how he could put that sinful mouth of his to good use, he wouldn't have to rely on credit card scams. The few occasions Dean felt experimental and went out to find himself a guy for back alley blowjobs or a quick mutual hand job in a public bathroom didn't involve subtle flirts either.

So hey, yes, this is new. And it feels nice, if Dean's honest with himself, even though he's not sure he wants to be someone's conquest like this; he's usually the one to conquer.

Belatedly, Dean realizes that it's his turn to answer a question he hadn’t been paying attention to in the first place, and that Cheap Suit is looking at him with a warm, slightly amused expression.

"Either I completely missed the mark and you're not playing on my team, or you're not doing this very often." Unsure, he looks down onto his hands for a moment, then his gaze flickers back to Dean.

It's a small nervous gesture, a single crack in the easy, flirty surface Cheap Suit has displayed so far, but for Dean, it breaks the ice. "Let's just say, I don't play on your team regularly." He catches the other man's gaze, holds it, lowers his voice a little. "I'm up for a game, though."

***

**  
**_(Largo, 2011)_  


  
Getting the file containing the latest check-in data is easy. Dean distracts the receptionist, lures her off the front desk by feigning the need for help finding the ice machine, and by the time she's back Sam already emailed himself a copy.

While Sam's working his way through the files back in their room, Dean takes a stroll through the hotel with the EMF. It's a bust—no traces of the ghost anywhere and the room doesn't raise any alarms on its own. He decides to go out for a coffee run to pass the time, and when he returns with two steaming cups from the Starbucks around the corner, Sam's just done printing his list out.

Dean snatches the pages right out of printer. It's roughly twenty names and addresses, and a few notes on when they stayed in the hotel and in which room; it still promises a lot of foot work, but it's a lot more doable than interviewing every guest of the place ever. He skims the list. The old man with the heart attack is on it – he traveled alone, so no witness to be found there – alongside a few other names Dean remembers from the articles. Nothing that seems out of the ordinary at first glance.

But one of the names makes his heart catch in his throat, for reasons that don't have anything to do with the case.

_Henry._

***

**  
**_(St. Petersburg, 2004)_  


  
Cheap Suit holds his hand out. Dean doesn't take it, but he nods, and they switch to non-verbal communication until they've arrived in Dean's room, and Dean's spread out naked on the bed, knees bent, a mouth on his cock. He'd directed them here out of a stupid sense of self-protection, wanting to be in his own space rather than in someone else's, and he's got no idea where that came from. But the guy didn't protest, so that settled the my-place-or-your-place question.

When he feels fingers exploring the general area below his balls, stroking at his perineum with an intention to go lower, Dean starts to feel uncomfortable, almost a little anxious. He's never done this before. Sure, yeah, he's fooled around, those blow- and hand jobs, a finger up his ass to go with it now and then, but never... This. Never something that's so clearly aimed at sex with another man; the guy apparently intends to _fuck him_ and it's too much. More than he can deal with right now. Alone, fancy hotel, a guy that doesn't just communicate his intentions with grunts and winks, _a guy_ , and all of a sudden Dean's leg hurts like a bitch, he could swear there's fresh blood soaking the bandage due to the position he's in -

"Stop." He leans forward to bat at the hands on his body, draws his legs closed.

Cheap Suit sits back on his haunches, staring at Dean, confusion and something like concern written all over his face. Says "sorry", but it sounds more like a question, like he's not sure what he's apologizing for.

Suddenly embarrassed, Dean shrugs his shoulders. "Uhm, I just. Haven't done this before." He shakes his head, trying to sort his thoughts. "I mean, yeah, no, I did. With men. But not, uh. Sex." Great, and now he's lost the ability to talk in full sentences. This is ridiculous.

The guy looks at him intently for a moment, studies him. "Do you want me to hit the road?"

"No, it's fine. Stay." Dean makes to get up and head for the bathroom. Despite knowing how that's going to look, he's got to check on his leg, maybe bandage it anew if it really did bleed again. "I'll be right back, make yourself comfortable. And, sorry to be a buzzkill. Dunno what happened."

"Don't worry, it's okay. My name is Henry, by the way." He grins and puts his hand out, mock-serious. "Nice to meet you."

The hand is back down with a wink before Dean can reach for it, which is good, because a handshake here and now and not to mention naked would've felt more awkward than funny. Henry looks up at him, waiting for Dean to introduce himself, too, and after a moment's hesitation Dean decides to go with the name he's booked the room under. "I'm Peter."

***

**  
**_(Largo, 2011)_  


  
Dean hands the list back to Sam and runs a hand down his face, trying to think of something case-related to say. What finally comes out is, "Uh, nice work. Useful."

The tone sounds off even to Dean's mind, never mind the highly intelligent choice of words, and Sam turns in his chair.

"What's up with you? You look like you just saw a ghost." Immediately after the words are out, Sam catches on with what kind of case they're working and what he just said and he squints. "No, wait, did you?"

It's a reasonable enough question, and not out of the realm of possibility – the ghost they're hunting just conveniently appearing in front of them all of a sudden wouldn't be the strangest thing that ever happened to them, not by far – but the way Sam says it is just too funny. Certainly enough to have Dean snort a laugh before he can stop himself.

The expression that follows in response is pure Sam: indignant, pissed off, trying to be rightfully offended while holding off a smile, just for the principle of it. "Hey! It's a possibility. Haunted hotel and all." Sounding all of five years old, he adds, "Asshole."

Still grinning, Dean pats Sam's shoulder. "Awww, sorry."

"Whatever." Sam glares up at him, and that right there? Full-on bitchface. "Do you want to do the interviews together? Or we could split the list, each do half. Would be faster."

Dean wants to say yes, good idea, let's split the list. Pick the upper half and be done with this, let Sam see Henry and put the lid on the resurfacing memories of a long-forgotten pickup, special only because it was a guy, not a girl. But he just got his little brother back, the real deal, all Sam, and Dean's not going to expose him to a long row of strangers over the course of a day without keeping an eye out on him. Not yet.

So protectiveness wins over self-preservation. "No, lets do it together."

***

**  
**_(St. Petersburg, 2004)_  


  
By the time Dean re-emerges from the bathroom, Henry's put his boxers back on and is sitting on the edge of the bed. He's twiddling his thumbs, and looks up briefly before his eyes start to flicker over random objects in the room, clearly searching for something to stare at that isn't Dean's still-naked body in the doorway.

It's almost cute.

"You know, I'm not actually a blushing virgin," Dean says, making a show of striding over to the bed. Once there, he lies down opposite of where Henry's sitting, careful to leave enough room for a second body. A wordless invitation.

Henry takes it, leans back onto the pillows next to him. "Could've fooled me." He glances over at Dean and grins.

"Sure, go ahead, make fun of me. See how that affects your chances of a second round."

The flare of heat in Henry's expression in response to that makes it clear he's very much on board with another go, but the grin disappears. "We don't have to, if you're not sure. Sometimes you think you're into something, but it turns out you're not. No big deal."

Dean rolls his eyes at him. "I _am_ into it. Just felt a bit sudden, is all."

There is no second round that night. Dean turns the TV on to ease the tension, and before he's even done channel surfing Henry's fallen asleep with his head against Dean's shoulder.

***

  
**  
**_(Largo, 2011)_  


  
The interviews take a good amount of driving in between, and they decide to space them out over two days.

It only puts off the inevitable. Either Dean joins Sam on the interview like all the others and risks that Henry recognizes him and blows their cover, or he mans up beforehand to tell Sam about Henry. Neither game plan looks particularly attractive.

Door number three is finding another witness who comes up with something substantial enough to cancel the rest, and that's what Dean's hoping for.

No such luck. Some of the people on their list remember strange things happening during their stay, chairs being knocked over, stuff being moved as if by an invisible hand; some saw a young woman out of the corner of their eye, but that's about it. They don't get any hints on who that woman might've been, or what is it that keeps her around, and Dean gets increasingly tense the more names they cross off their list. Sam keeps throwing him glances but doesn't comment on it, until they stop at a diner to get some burgers after they're done for the day.

Back in the car, Dean drops the key while attempting to put it into the ignition. He curses, leans forward into the footwell to retrieve it and hits his head on the steering wheel when he comes back up too fast. “Fuck!”

Sam's eyebrows draw together in concern. “You okay? ”

“Why wouldn't I be?”

“Dunno, but you've been acting weird all day.”

“Just frustrated with how slow the damn case is going, is all.” Dean starts the car up, ends the conversation with a glare.

***

**  
**_(St. Petersburg, 2004)_  


  
The next morning, Dean wakes up to the sight of Henry's naked back, and he's not quite sure if he wants to jump out of bed and throw him out or roll him over and kiss him awake.

He settles for getting dressed and making coffee.

The room doesn't have a kitchen, but it comes with a coffee machine, a microwave and a popcorn maker – whoever came up with the latter as standard for each room, Dean doesn't even want to know – and Henry starts to stir as soon as the smell of freshly brewed coffee fills the room. He grunts and yawns, then looks up at Dean, puzzled. "I'm still here."

"Well, hey, looks like I picked up Captain Obvious." Dean chuckles when Henry flips him off in response, takes the coffee pot out of the machine and gives it a little shake. "Want a cup?"

"Want? I'd kill for one."

There's a tablet with tableware next to the machines and Dean gets two cups, walks over to the small table by the window and sits. "Get your lazy ass outta bed then. I'm not your busboy."

Henry complies, shuffles over to join Dean at the table. "Not a morning person, I see." He takes a sip, draws back and hisses when it scalds his lip. "So, what brings you here? Work, tourist?"

"Road trip, but I've had a run in with a rabid dog." Dean points down to the bandage on his leg. "Gonna stay here until it's healed up. You?"

"Work. I'm a sales rep, selling encyclopedias to old ladies who are helpless to my charm."

Dean's at a bit of a loss, no idea what he's supposed to say to that. "That's, uh, nice."

"Puts food on the table and pays the bills."

That concludes the conversation for a while, they finish their coffee in silence. After that, Dean somehow misses the window of opportunity where it's still okay to dispose of your one night stand the morning after, and Henry makes no move to leave. Even though Dean's a little unclear on what day it is, exactly, he's rather sure it's a weekday. He wonders if Henry doesn't have to go and sell some of those encyclopedias, but he doesn't say anything.

It's not like having Sam or Dad around, but it beats sitting idle in the lobby.

***

**  
**_(Largo, 2011)_  


  
Day two of the interviews, and Dean dares to hope that he can avoid the whole Henry-issue when Mrs. Whitsham, an elderly woman from Boyette who stays at the hotel every time she visits her daughter in Largo, tells them that she's seen the ghost several times and gives a better description of her: brunette, early twenties, fifties-styled clothes. She is distinctively undisturbed by the fact that she's seen a ghost – one and the same, even – numerous times, and invites them for tea and cookies.

Back in the car, Dean suggests skipping the rest of the interviews and heading to the county library, but he has no real counter-argument when Sam points out that library closes at noon, that they're almost done with the list anyway, and more information never hurts.

In the driveway of what the list states as the home of one Henry Matheson, Dean has to pick one of his options. And because he's still a professional, it's not the one that could expose them as fake federal agents. He cuts the engine off and turns towards Sam, who already makes to get out. "Hey, Sammy, it's better if you do this one alone."

Sam stops dead, alarmed. "Why's that?"

"Henry Matheson, uh, I know him."

"From where? And why didn't you tell me sooner?"

Dean considers to lie to him, spout something about being classmates long ago or drinking buddies, or having met him on another case, but it's too late for any of that. Sam would've bought it, if Dean'd told him sooner, but now? Not a chance. "I'll explain later, okay?"

Sam's forehead wrinkles, but he nods and gets out of the car.

The interview is short, and when he's back in the car Sam tells him that Henry didn't know anything about the ghost. He turns a questioning gaze towards Dean, and Dean wangles himself a last reprieve by reminding Sam of the few names left on their list and promising to answer Sam's questions back at the hotel.

***

**  
**_(St. Petersburg, 2004)_  


  
Save for a trip to his own room to change and shower, Henry ends up staying the whole day.

Henry's absence gives Dean just enough time to think this little endeavor over. He never bothered to ask himself the gay-straight-something-in-between question before, brushed off the making out as experimentation and fooling around, but this feels like crossing a line.

He's not gay, that much he knows; he loves women. Very much. Team pussy all the way.

But he kinda likes this, too, and he enjoys Henry's company in a way that's decidedly not like hanging out with a friend. Friends don't find each other attractive, friends don't make heat pool in each other's groins, and oh, friends don't suck each other's dicks.

It scares him, but not enough to call the whole thing off. He'll think about what it means later, or not at all.

And because Dean Winchester doesn't do anything half-assed, they have their second round later that evening. It's slow and lazy and everything else that Dean's fooling around with guys usually isn't, and Henry's being so hesitant and gentle Dean wants to scream. He's constantly seeking reassurance that what he does is okay, that yes, Dean wants that, and that, and ohh, yeah, that, until Dean's finally had it with the fingering and demands Henry get on with the program and put it in already – a demand he almost regrets as soon as Henry does. It's not bad, but it feels like an intrusion, it fucking _burns_ even though Henry pushes deeper slowly, carefully, and Dean starts to think that maybe this isn't his thing after all.

Henry senses Dean's discomfort, bends forward enough to whisper into his ear. "Wait a moment, that's normal. It'll get better, much better, I promise." A quick kiss, and he pulls back again, gives Dean's body a few more moments to accommodate to the stretch and then angles himself a little differently, thrusts in deeper, and introduces Dean to the effect of stimulation to his prostate.

Well, yeah. He can definitely see the appeal of _that_.

The rest of the week, they spend as much time with each other as Dean's pride and Henry's job allow—and a good amount of it naked. Dean's initial unease about being with a man like this – face to face, not anonymous and with a hint of shame – fades fast and makes room for a whole new set of experiences. It's different from being with women, and yet it's the most intimate he's been with a person since Cassie. The thought of her still stings, and it's not the same; Henry's a fling, something with a due date that's coming up quickly. But, and here's the thing: they don't just fuck. Once in a while, they actually talk.

More precisely, Henry talks and Dean listens, but that's an arrangement Dean's more than okay with.

Once, after Henry comes in from making his rounds in a town nearby and they're sitting on the bed, not making out yet but about to, Dean asks him how he got into his job. Sales rep, he figures, isn't something you actively aim for.

Henry's expression darkens, and he takes in a sharp breath before he answers. "I had to drop out of college, and that's the first job I could find. We needed the money."

There's a obviously a lot more to the story, and Dean's ready to admit that he'd like to know why college ceased to be an option and who exactly _we_ is, but instead he asks "What'd you study?"

"Lit." With that, Henry grabs the bag he dropped on the floor near the bed only a few minutes ago, gets up and marches towards the door. "You know what? I'll leave you to it for tonight. Catch you tomorrow."

He doesn't wait for an answer, and Dean's left wondering what kind of hornets' nest he just stirred up.

***

**  
**_(Largo, 2011)_  


  
Sam picks the thread up again as soon as the door of their room falls shut behind them. He builds himself up in front of Dean and stares at him with raised eyebrows. "So, we're here. Tell me. What's the deal with that Matheson guy?"

"We met. During the time you were at Stanford." No point in lying, but Dean's not planning on giving away more than he absolutely has to.

"And? Care to explain to me why you didn't mention that you know him when I first showed you the list?"

Dean tries to stall by walking over to his bed, slowly, sitting down and pulling off his boots. "Got nothing to do with this case," he says, tone as indifferent as he can manage.

"Ah. He's not the reason you behaved so weird, then?" For all that Sam's acting pissy, justifiably angry about Dean’s withholding facts from him, there's an edge to his voice that doesn't quite blend with his body language. He's _worried_.

And that makes Dean's resolve to keep his adventures in buttfucking out of this conversation melt like ice in the sun. Sam being pissed off he can handle, but letting Sam worry about him when there's no reason to is a different matter. "Look, Sam. It's..." He pauses, inhales, gives the edge of the mattress a squeeze. "When I said I know him? I meant it in the biblical sense."

Sam's expression turns from reproachful to confused, he squints his eyes shut as if that helps him to process the information he's just been given - and then the penny drops. "Oh."

***

**  
**_(St. Petersburg, 2004)_  


  
The next day is a Saturday, and Henry's there, shouting Dean's name just as loud as the hotel's code of conduct allows, knocking at his door at the crack of dawn. From the annoyance in his tone, he's been doing that for a while; Dean's a pretty light sleeper, but the TV is still on, blaring at what isn't a very moderate volume, and it drowns out everything else.

Dean shouts something along the lines of "'M' coming, stop yelling, would ya?" back and gets out of bed. Naturally, his sleepy mind isn't exactly up to par, and he puts pressure on his injured leg first when he gets up, cries out.

He's still mumbling profanities under his breath when he gets to the door, opens it and gestures for Henry to enter the room.

Henry stays where he is and shakes his head. "If you don't mind, and if it's okay with your leg, I'd like to take you on a little trip today." His expression is unreadable, a little bashful, kind of sad, but also excited. A bit like a 10th-grader who's asking his crush out for the first time.

And oh, that has Dean instantly smelling bullshit. "A trip, huh?" He pushes past Henry, peers into the hallway on the lookout for any items that might give away their destination. "Where to?"

Henry snickers. "Nothing to be seen here; all we need is packed in the car." He lays a hand on Dean's bare chest, pushes him back into the room and closes the door behind them. "Get dressed, I'll tell you on the way."

"Fine. But if you pull out a blanket and a picnic basket, I'm going to clock you one."

***

**  
**_(Largo, 2011)_  


  
Dean uses Sam's momentary confusion to bolt and get them some dinner. When he returns with two bags of Chinese takeout, Sam has the common sense to let Dean eat in peace before he brings the topic up again.

But as soon as they're finished, Sam jumps right into the deep end. "Okay, uhm, Henry. You slept with him?"

"Look at that, the years you spent at college paid off." Dean grins, and Sam frowns and cocks his head to the side. Patented Sam Winchester face, that one, and Dean has to grin even wider, fully aware that it will annoy Sam just that much more. "Yeah, I did."

"One time thing? Or do you, like, generally sleep with men as well as women?"

In retrospect, sidestepping the issue was a mistake. Gave Sam time to roll it over in his head and _think_ about it. And now, inquiring minds need to know it all.

"He wasn't the only one," Dean answers truthfully, and Sam looks like he's about to launch into a speech. To avoid that, Dean holds his hands up. "I'm not gay, Sam, don't even start."

"No, the correct term would be bisexual." By now, Sam's face has taken on a sympathetic expression; he's all prepared to lend his confused brother a hand in figuring out his sexual orientation and dealing with it. Chances are he, like, Googled that while Dean was out.

Except Dean already figured it out years ago, dealt with it good and proper all on his own. No need to dig into it further. "Sammy, please. It's getting late and I'm tired, and I don't want to have this conversation. Not now, not tomorrow, not ever."

It's not that easy to sidetrack Sam once he's decided he's going to _help_. "I'm just trying to make sense of this. I never even noticed –"

"You weren't supposed to. None of your business."

Sam shrugs, then his expression turns crestfallen. "I don't have a problem with it, if that's what you thought."

"It isn't."

Sam looks at him thoughtfully. "Okay." It's obvious he's not done, would want to talk about this some more, but he just gives Dean a reassuring smile and disappears into the bathroom for his evening routine. Dean follows his example once he's back, and they both crawl into their beds.

It's quiet for a while, until Sam whispers, "Dean?"

Dean contemplates feigning sleep, but whatever's on Sam's mind, it's still going to be there tomorrow. They might as well get it over with now. "Yeah?"

"Never mind."

"Sam, what?"

"Nothing. Forget I asked."

"You didn't ask anything yet, Sam. Spill it."

There's some rustling in the other bed; Sam turning so he can face Dean, who's already looking in his brother's direction. "Just wondering, if you, uh."

"Hm?"

Sam clears his throat. "Well, uhm. Catcher or pitcher?"

"Whoa, I'm so not answering that." Dean flips over to show Sam his back, half-drags one of the extra pillows above his head for good measure.

They have way too few boundaries.

***

**  
**_(St. Petersburg, 2004)_  


  
Whatever Henry meant by "all they need", he wasn't kind enough to leave it in the back seat for Dean to see – all there is are boxes with the encyclopedias Henry sells – and he stubbornly refuses to give Dean any hints at all.

They drive in silence for a while, and Dean watches the palms and tropical trees fly by and tries to keep track in his head: They leave Pinellas County, pass through Hillsborough County, and Henry doesn't so much as glance at a map once. He knows his way around the area; not surprising given how much time he must spend driving around for his job.

Dad passed him the Impala on his eighteenth birthday and Dean's not used to riding shotgun anymore. He let Sam drive a few times when he was tired enough that steering them into a tree by accident became a possibility, but with someone he doesn't know very well on the wheel, he can't nap. Trying to engage Henry in conversation doesn't work out, he's tight-lipped and withdrawn, and Dean goes back to staring out the window, watches their surroundings become more rural as Henry leaves the main roads shortly after they entered Manatee County.

Finally, they end up in front of a rundown, apparently long-closed shop in a town called Piney Point, pretty much on the other side of the bay. The small shop window offers a view into an empty room, and the front door is nailed up, the shop sign weather-worn and barely readable. What's left is hard to decipher, but the remaining letters hint at a bookstore.

Nodding towards the store, Henry finally talks again, voice small, face hidden from Dean's view. "Matheson's Antiquarian Bookshop. Used to belong to my family. My grandfather established it, and my dad ran it until he died. After his death, my mother discovered that it was pretty much bankrupt. The bank even tried to sell our house to cover the debts, but we managed to save it." He clears is throat. "But I had to drop out of college, get a job, to help support her. She's sick, you know?"

Henry doesn't specify what kind of sick, and Dean doesn't ask. He suddenly feels like he already knows too much.

But Henry's not done yet. "As I told you, I studied Lit. Wanted to teach later, spread the love for books my parents gave me. Ever since I was a kid, hiding away in between the shelves to read, I loved nothing more than diving into stories, adventures, other people's lives." He gestures to the boxes on the back seat. "And look where I ended up."

"I'm sorry." It feels inappropriate, not enough, but there's a reason why Dean's not all that fond of heart-to-hearts. He's not good at this, not anymore. Sometime around the time he outgrew puberty and Sam entered it, he lost the ability to talk about _feelings_.

Henry slaps on a strained smile. "Okay, so much for the emotional part of this trip. But that's not all the reason I took you here." His face is half hopeful, half wary when he continues, "We own a little cabin by a lake nearby. It's a little ramshackle, because we don't exactly have the money to keep it in good shape, but, uh. I thought maybe we could spend the weekend there, if you want?"

Dean just nods, and Henry starts the car up again.

***

**  
**_(Largo, 2011)_  


  
Sifting through old newspaper clippings on microfilm, Dean's reminded why background research has never been his favorite aspect of the job. It's fucking boring.

Sam, however, is in geek heaven, sifts through articles and old photos with an enthusiasm that makes Dean reconsider the likelihood of their kinship.

The search for young women dying in the Compton Inn comes up with a disturbing number of candidates for the ghost, even after ruling out the comparatively peaceful accidents. What's left are a husband shoving his new wife down a staircase on their honeymoon, a murder out of jealousy, and a handful of suicides.

Dean starts to wonder whether they should check the hotel for curses while they're at it.

They print out some of the obituaries and articles and Dean's just about to start bugging Sam to let it rest for the day when Sam pokes him into the ribs, eyes glued to the screen. "Give me the article about the suicide in December 1954 and the list of witnesses we made, would you?"

"Found something?" Dean asks, hands Sam the sheets of paper.

In lieu of an answer, Sam holds out the article, points to the screen and grins. Dean doesn't get it at first; there's a wedding announcement showing, and it isn't the one of the unlucky newlyweds.

"The maiden name of the bride, Dean, look."

***

**  
**_(Piney Point, 2004)_  


  
The cabin _is_ ramshackle, but it's also freaking beautiful, and that's not a word Dean uses often. Just a small hunting cabin, one room with a kitchenette, a table with three chairs, handmade out of wood, a bed and a fireplace plus bathroom and shed. Directly beside a lake that's lined with mangroves on the opposite shore, snuggled into the offshoots of a small forrest, and all theirs for the next 48 hours. Henry brought a cooler and a bag full of food in the trunk of his car, and most of the other things they’d need are stored in the cabin.

Dean eyes the lake longingly. It's still midsummer, hot and humid, but the last thing he needs is for the wound in his leg to become inflamed now that it's healing up. Henry refuses to go swimming alone, and they resort to having a fire by the water, roasting marshmallows from Henry's bag.

Holding the candy up above the fire on a stick, Dean can't suppress a chuckle.

“What's so funny?”

Dean hesitates. Growing up like he did, talking about childhood memories – or the lack thereof – isn't something he likes to do. Kind of a minefield. He keeps his answer short. “Never done this before.”

“Having a bonfire?” Henry draws his stick in, sticks his tongue out to see if it's too hot to eat. A little superfluous given that its fresh out fo the fire, but damn, it's adorable.

“No, roasting marshmallows.” Taking his candy out of the fire as well and setting the stick aside to cool of some, Dean crawls a little closer to Henry, noses at his neck and lets his hand slide under his t-shirt.

Henry grins, but stays on topic. “What did you do at bonfires, then?”

“Smoking pot, mostly.”

“See, now, that's something I never did before.”

“Seriously?” Dean leans back to gape at Henry in fake bafflement. ”What the hell'd you do at college?”

“Well, study?”

"So what, I'm not only sleeping with a _guy_ named _Henry_ , but also with someone who spent his whole time at college actually learning and reading? You're losing so many cool points, man."

Henry puts his arms around Dean's neck, draws him in for a kiss. “Any chance I could win them back?”

“You can try,” says Dean, and Henry doesn't waste any time by answering. He pushes Dean down onto the ground, pushes his shirt and t-shirt up, leans down to lick, nibble and bite at the skin on Dean's stomach.

“How am I doing so far?” Grinning again, much more mischievous, Henry goes down lower to mouth at Dean's crotch. He exhales, his hot breath bleeding through the threadbare fabric of Dean's old jeans, and it's awesome, feeling that on his cock.

“Not bad.”

Henry sits back, replacing his mouth with his hand, palms Dean and gives gentle pressure. “Okay. Hold that thought, we'll get back to it later.” He turns, picks the stick with Dean's marshmallow up and holds it out to him.” But first? Marshmallows.”  
Shortly after nightfall it starts to rain, and they flee into the cabin. Henry insists on cooking, something spicy with chicken that he claims is Spanish in origin, and they eat sitting cross-legged on the bed.

They fuck as the rain outside grows into a full-blown summer storm, thunder growling and lighting illuminating the room every few minutes.

Lying side by side in the afterglow, with nothing to do but listen to each other's breathing even out while they're coming down, Dean's still-dazed brain comes up with a sneaky plan to say thank you for all this. For the sex, for being trusted enough that Henry showed him the bookstore and brought him here, for not being alone during his forced break. "You said earlier that you wanted to teach after college," he says, conversationally.

Henry turns to face Dean, props himself up on one elbow. "Yeah?"

"Well, teach me."

"Uh, what?" Henry's eyes widen in confusion and he draws back a little, defensive, like he's not quite sure if Dean's serious or making fun of him.

"The books. Teach me. Read to me, give me a lecture on one of your books, however that shit works. Captive audience, all ears over here, I promise."

There's a moment of silence, and Dean starts to worry that he said the wrong thing, but Henry gets out of bed and reappears a few moments later with a book in his hand. He gestures for Dean to sit up, crawls into bed behind him. Dean makes a token attempt to get out of the embrace, but Henry wraps an arm around his chest and pulls him back.

He presses a kiss to the side of Dean's neck, chuckles low when Dean tries to dodge it, then holds the book out in front of them both with his free hand and flicks a pocket light on. Kurt Vonnegut, Mother Night, it says on the front. "It's my favorite. We talked about him when we first met, remember? So I probably won't have to convert you to love him, but -"

"I didn't actually read it. The book I had with me when we met."

"You didn't?"

"No. I just flicked through it, because... Uh, that's complicated."

Henry shrugs, but doesn't prod. "Okay, so, in that case, I get to introduce you to something new. Even better."

He gives Dean a short introduction on the details of the historical background and Vonnegut's own biography, and then he starts reading. Every few pages, he stops, asks Dean a question to make sure that he's been listening, explain something if necessary.

They make it through about 20 pages before Dean nicks off, despite his promises to listen closely to Henry's every word.

***

  
**  
**_(Boyette, 2011)_  


  
Mrs. Whitsham smiles knowingly when she opens the door to let them in. "I was hoping you two would come back. Figured it out, didn't you?"

"She's your sister, isn't she? The dead girl, the ghost?" Sam asks, and Mrs. Whitsham nods.

"Why didn't you tell us?"

"Many newspeople have been here over the years, and I didn't ever tell anyone the whole story. Being called a crazy old hag, that I can live with, but I didn't want Clara's death to be a quick headline." She looks at Sam, then at Dean. "You seemed different, but I needed to be sure."

Dean shakes his head. "What happened, Mrs. Whitsham?"

"Clara had an affair with a married man. I never knew who he was, as she never told me, but he was someone important in the city council. The last time we talked, she said that she was going to confront him that night. Make him choose between her and his wife. In the morning I got a call from our mother. She'd just been informed that Clara committed suicide—shot herself. A maid found her body." She goes over to a sideboard with a bunch of photos on it, picks up an old one with two young women in old-fashioned swim suits, arm in arm and laughing. "I never believed for one second that my sister took her own life."

The brothers exchange a look, and Sam walks up to Mrs. Whitsham, takes her free hand in his. "Where is your sister buried?"

***

**  
**_(St. Petersburg, 2004)_  


  
Dad calls Dean two weeks after the hunt Dean got injured on, to the day. It's a short phone call, he asks if Dean's back on his feet and – when Dean affirms – makes him write down the name of a town in Milwaukee and some directions.

Henry takes the news in stride; they both knew this was temporary, fun while it lasted, thank you and goodbye. He sits down on the bed, pats the covers suggestively. “Let's make the best of the last night, what do you think?”

“I think I'm all for it.”

They do, fuck in the bed, against the wall in the main room, in the shower. By morning they're lying in bed again after just a few hours of sleep; it’s lazy kisses until it's time for Henry to get to work and they leave Dean's room together. Their goodbyes out in the parking lot are short, few words, no emotions, and they don't exchange phone numbers or anything else. Dean still hasn't given Henry so much as a last name to go with the fake first name.

The hunt in Milwaukee is a two-man-job but neither difficult nor complicated, and when Dean awakes that morning to his father still asleep, he pulls the book out he was flicking through that first day in the hotel in Florida, and starts reading.

Dean gets rid of all the books shortly after Sam loses his girlfriend and joins him on the road again, but by then he's made his way through half of them and a few he bought himself.

***

**  
**_(Piney Point, 2011)_  


  
On their way back to Largo, Dean takes a detour.

It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now that he stands in front of the door, the sound of the door bell echoing from inside, Dean's not so sure anymore.

He's about to turn around and go back to the car, half glad and half disappointed that no one's home, when he hears footsteps in the hallway.

Wallet in hand and already counting out notes, Henry opens the door, but he freezes when he sees Dean. "You're not here to deliver me vegetables."

Dean smiles awkwardly. "No, I'm not."

"I didn't think I'd ever see your face again," Henry says, smiling back . It's warm and honest, a little melancholic too.

"Me neither. But, uh. I've been in the area, thought I'd say hello." Head bowed, Dean rubs his neck. "So, hello?"

“Do you want to come in?” Henry gestures, a wide sweep pointing down the hallway.

"I didn't make plans beyond the hello, to be honest.” Dean glances down the street, where Sam's waiting in the car, parked out of sight. “Maybe it's better if I don't.”

Just a few years, but so much has happened since they last saw each other. Dean long since stopped being the person Henry met, a person he can hardly remember how to be some days, and it's strange. You can't ever get the past back, no matter how much you'd like to or who you run into again, further down the way.

He clears his throat, runs a hand down is face. Henry's waiting for an answer. “No, seriously, I guess it's better If I get going. Someone's waiting for me.”

With that, he smiles at Henry one last time, turns, and walks down the path leading from the door to the garden gate, feeling Henry's eyes boring into his back.


End file.
